Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Thunder (Part 3)

Someone was rummaging through a cutlery draw in the next room, and the sound grew louder as Sherlock approached the kitchen, bleary-eyed and mid-way-through pulling a dressing gown around his shoulders. Then---as the person located whatever they had been looking for---the draw slid shut and the hob clicked as they turned a few dials.

When Sherlock rounded the corner he found Y/N breaking an egg into a pan, which crackled and spat angrily at the heat. Y/N ignored its protests and added another, dropping the shells in the open bin before kicking it shut with her foot. She turned around as Sherlock approached, perhaps hearing his bare feet on the floor, and gave him a wide smile. She, too, is still in her pyjamas.

Sherlock felt tempted to ask her to get back into bed with him.

"Good morning."

"Morning." He returned her smile, genuinely happy to see her, but too disappointed about their cuddle being cut short to beam with Y/N's level of enthusiasm.

Would she mention last night? Should he mention last night? Sharing a bed, cuddling into the early hours of the morning seems like one of those things you can't just brush under the rug. Sherlock doesn't want to brush it under the rug. He'd learnt something, huddled on his mattress while the rain spat from the sky and the heavens roared outside; he and Y/N had touched, and it had been pleasant---more than pleasant---and he desperately wanted to know if they'd ever do it again.

"Did you sleep okay, in the end?" He asked as casually as he could.

Y/N finished popping open a can of Heinz baked beans and tipped them into a saucepan. "Yeah, thank you."

Sherlock waited for her to say something else---'Your bed is comfy' or something like that---but she didn't, so he just reached up to disappointedly pour himself some Cornflakes.

Y/N's turned to him, then, her brows pulled together. "Don't you want any cooked breakfast?"

He blinked at her, the smell of fried eggs tickling the inside of his nose. He would, very much. "Yes please?"

"Don't sound so afraid, it's not poisoned." Y/N gave him a teasing nudge in the ribs with the point of her elbow.

Sherlock chuckled, and would have nudged her back, had she not been in the process of teasing the eggs in the pan.

They crackled unhappily as she jabbed at them with the spatula, the fringes of the whites starting to curl as they crisped.

"What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." Her cheeks went pink, and Sherlock thought it looked very pretty---not that he'd admit it, to her or even himself. " I just wanted to say thank you...for last night. For making me feel better."

"Don't mention it." Do mention it. Let's talk about it. Help me explore those new, strange feelings you somehow manage to illicit, those prickly ones that made my skin do that tingly thing. "Could I have another egg?"

...

Craving cheese, Sherlock had decided to swap a wedge of toast for a panini, and was presently leaning on the sandwich press to squash the bread between the grills. While he waited for them to turn a pleasant gold sort of colour, he propped himself up against the counter and regarded Y/N with mellow curiosity as she methodologically worked, grinding flakes of pepper onto this, and using the prongs of a fork to tweak that.

He could observe her for hours.

They ate in silence, but not because no one could think of anything to say. Sherlock, for one, was brimming with sentences, but he restrained them because he's not sure what would happen if they got out.